


first you get hurt, then you feel sorry

by escapismandsharpobjects



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding, Gen, aka i dont get how there hasnt yet been follow up to the stuff sheriff valenti told max, completed!, i guess, may add more chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:41:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24741712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escapismandsharpobjects/pseuds/escapismandsharpobjects
Summary: max and isobel have a talk about max being the one who was screaming and drawing on the walls at the group home. set sometime between episodes 2x09 and 2x12.EDIT: second chapter added!! max and michael talk.EDIT: third chapter added!!!! max and his mom talk.
Relationships: Isabel Evans & Max Evans, Max Evans & Ann Evans, Max Evans & Michael Guerin
Comments: 15
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! as the tags say i wrote this because i wanted some follow up to max and sheriff valenti's conversation and i feel like max is just. mr guilt out here and the fact that he hasn't talked about it yet makes me sad so i fixed it. also what is time lol imagine this is stuck in a free moment between 2x09 and 2x12 but like. whenever. anyway i may add more to this?? who knows. title from first by cold war kids.

Isobel leans into the familiar warmth of her brother’s side. It’s been a wild couple days, and she thinks she’s probably lucky to get any break from it at all. They’re in the park, and it’s nearly sundown, so it’s virtually empty, apart from the two of them sitting quietly on a bench. 

Isobel breaks the comfortable silence between them-she can’t help it, she just  _ has _ to know the details of Max’s arrest, so she says, “how was prison?” nudging Max with her shoulder and grinning. “Get any tattoos? Join a gang?”

Max sighs, dragging a hand down his face. Isobel turns to her brother and really  _ looks  _ at him-he’s been a little off recently, and there’s a look in his eyes that she knows, and hates, and hates that she knows. Guilt. She frowns and waits for him to speak.

But Max just stares at his feet, saying nothing. Naturally, Isobel presses. “Seriously, Max. I mean, Michael’s got his fair share of drunk-tank stories, but I wanna hear from  _ you. _ I  _ am _ the only one of us who’s never been arrested now.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it, okay?” Max snaps. Isobel leans away a little, holding up her hands. “Okay, sorry,” she replies, only growing more curious about Max’s brief stint behind bars. 

He sighs again, closing his eyes. “No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-“

“It’s fine Max, I’m not gonna rip it out of you or anything. I just thought maybe you’d want to talk about it.”

Max makes a  _ hmm _ ing sound, leaning his head onto Isobel’s shoulder. After a few minutes of slightly charged silence, he speaks. 

“Before she officially arrested me, Sheriff Valenti...said some things. I didn’t believe her, I didn’t want to believe her...but...I think she’s right. About me.”

Isobel doesn’t press this time, no matter how badly she wants to, as Max takes a breath and runs a lightly shaking hand through his hair. She grabs the hand, runs her fingers across it soothingly, and waits for him to continue. 

“She told me, the day our parents came to the home, that it...it wasn’t Michael who was screaming and drawing the symbol on the walls. It was me.”

“But Michael-“

“Took the crayon from me, and then our parents came into the room, and saw him, and I guess they assumed it was his drawing on the wall. But it was me, Isobel.  _ Me. _ I’m the reason Michael was left behind. It should have been  _ me. _ He’s-it’s my fault.”

Isobel takes a second to process-she doesn't want to think about why this makes sense, not now. So she focuses on the things she knows: that they had been seven years old, strangers to everything in the world except each other, unable to speak, unable to truly understand. She can’t help but wonder, for a second, why her and Max’s parents hadn’t...what, taken the time to consider that Michael having the crayon in his hand didn’t necessarily mean that he’d been the one to deface the walls? But it’s not like she remembers that day-none of them do, so it’s not like she can say what went through the Evanses minds. Not like it matters now, anyway. 

“We were seven and didn’t know how to communicate with them, Max. There wasn’t a lot you could have done. I mean, you don’t even remember this happening.”

Max shakes his head, sniffs. “It doesn’t matter. Once we could speak, I should have done something. Told them they should’ve taken Michael instead, confessed, I don’t know.”

“Max, you  _ don’t remember _ that day. You couldn’t have confessed, even if you’d wanted to.”

“Maybe. But...Michael went through hell, while you and I led perfect little lives. We had each other, we had a  _ family. _ Michael had no one.”

“Michael had us,” Isobel points out. “We have  _ always  _ been a family, Max, even if we were separated.”

Max stands up. “No, we weren’t!” he snaps. “Michael was alone. Because of me!”

Isobel stands, too, placing a hand on her brother’s arm. “No amount of blaming yourself for the past is going to change it. And yeah, okay, maybe you were the ‘troubled child,’ and not Michael. That doesn’t make it your fault that he...that he was left behind.”

Max smiles, that sad, angry smile of his, and sucks in a breath. “Isn’t it my fault, though? Our whole lives, I’ve tried to protect the two of you. But now- _ I’m _ the one that put Michael in danger in the first place. He could’ve grown up happy, loved, with a real family and a house and...and a twin sister, and I stole that from him before we could _ talk!” _

He collapses back onto the bench, burying his face in his hands, like that will stop Isobel from noticing the light trembling in his shoulders and his hands, or the way he’s taking these small breaths like he’s afraid, suddenly, to make any noise.

She sits next to him again, turns to face him, and gently places her hands over his, pulling them away from his face and into her lap. She continues holding on as she speaks, thinking carefully about what she needs to say. 

“Maybe,” she starts, “maybe that’s true. Maybe Michael and I could have been the Evans twins. Maybe he would have grown up in a better situation. _ Maybe. _ Or maybe, all three of us would have been split up. Maybe Michael  _ and  _ you would have been left to the system. You can’t change the past, Max, and you can’t know what would have happened if you could.”

She pauses, takes a breath, wipes away a tear of her own. “I know it hurts, to realize that there are things in your past which have hurt other people, but you have to accept those things as part of you. You were an abandoned, angry kid, and you screamed and you drew on the walls, and Michael took the blame for it. You can’t change that. But you  _ can  _ talk to Michael, or our parents. Just...figure out how you can accept this, and forgive yourself for it.”

Max pulls his hands out of Isobel’s, scrubs the tears from his face. “Okay,” he says finally, quietly. “I’ll talk to Michael, maybe Mom and Dad.” He manages a small smile, and leans forward to hug his sister. Isobel quickly wraps her arms around him, resting a hand softly in his hair. “I know you will,” she says. “You’ll work this out, Max.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, sounding like he  _ maybe  _ half believes it. Isobel smiles a little, pulling Max closer, letting his head rest on her shoulder. She’ll take that half-belief. It's a start, at least. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> max and michael talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!! here's the second part of this story! it's set in the same nebulous time frame during the latter half of s2,,,dont think too hard about the timing ok? anyway i hope this is alright!

Michael doesn’t remember making the conscious decision to go to Max’s house. He just knows that, all of a sudden, he’d gotten a _ feeling, _ a  _ pull  _ towards Max, which told him that  _ something was wrong. _

Which is how he’s ended up in front of Max’s house at nearly two in the morning. The first thing he notices is that Isobel isn’t here-or if she is, she didn’t drive. The second thing he notices is that everything is dark. He tries to remind himself that that doesn’t mean much, considering the terribly late (or early, depending on perspective) hour. Still, he can’t help approaching the door slowly, carefully, his senses on high alert.  _ Something is wrong, _ he reminds himself, even if nothing looks like it. He knocks. Waits. Knocks again.

After his third polite bang on the door, Michael unlocks it himself, calling out to Max softly, in case that  _ feeling  _ is wrong and Max is actually completely fine and just asleep.

But he’s not. As soon as Michael closes the door behind him, he feels another pull towards Max, hears a faint noise in the kitchen. He makes his way to the room, still on the lookout for a possible intruder. 

All he finds, though, is Max, slumped against the cabinets, eyes half closed, two near-empty bottles (acetone and whiskey) by his side. Michael sighs and relaxes minutely. No danger, apart possibly from Max drinking himself into a coma. 

He crouches in front of his quasi-brother, snapping his fingers sharply. “Max, you alive?”

Max groans and opens his eyes. “Michael?”

“Yeah,” Michael says. “What’s up?”

Max shakes his head. “Isobel...Isobel said I should talk to you, but it’s too much and we’re finally starting to be a family and I don’t wanna ruin it but it’s my fault anyway-”

Michael chooses to ignore the latter part of Max’s slurred, mostly incoherent explanation for the time being. “Is Isobel here?” He’s pretty sure she’s not, but if Max is in distress (which he has to be, given, well,  _ everything), _ Isobel is usually there for him.

“No,” Max tells him. “No, she already knows. I just need you.”

“Knows what?”

Max doesn’t answer him. 

“Max?”

Still no answer. Michael mentally flicks the lights on, and Max flinches back, covering his eyes. “Ow!”

“Talk,” Michael says. “What does Isobel know?”

Max shakes his head again, pushing his palms harder into his eyes. Michael sighs and turns the lights back off. He’s pretty sure he’s out of his depth completely, and Max hasn’t even told him what’s wrong yet. “That better, o creature of the night?” he jokes, trying to maneuver the conversation back into a more comfortable territory.

His attempt at making things light falls flat when Max sniffles. Michael drops down next to him, pushing the bottles aside and leaning against the cabinets with him. “Hey, man, you’ve gotta tell me what’s wrong, I can get Isobel, or Liz, or-”

Max cuts him off with a sob that he tries too late to muffle with his hands, and Michael feels something in him break a little. Without letting himself think about anything except for how badly he used to wish someone would do this for him, he wraps an arm around Max’s shoulders, pulling him close and keeping a tight grip on him. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he says, making his voice as low and reassuring as he can. “It’s okay.”

Max tries to separate them, pushing weakly on Michael’s shoulders, but Michael won’t let him go. Not anymore. “We’re family, Max,” he says, “I’ve got you.”

“No,” Max insists, taking a horrible, shuddering breath, “no, that’s what I have to tell you.” He takes in a big gulp of air, and Michael scarcely has time to wonder what it is that Max has to tell him before everything comes tumbling out.

“It’s my fault, they were supposed to take you, they should have taken you,” Max says, all in one breath.  _ “I _ did it, and they blamed  _ you  _ and everything is my fault.”

Michael waits for...anything more, but Max, evidently, has had enough of talking and has gone back to crying, taking breaths that sound dangerously close to hyperventilation.

“Breathe, Max,” Michael tries. “What do you mean everything is your fault?”

Max only sobs again in response, trying to take a deep breath that catches in his throat. “It’s my fault,” he insists. “You got left and we got out and  _ I did it, _ it’s my fault.”

And suddenly Michael realizes what he’s talking about. “The home?”

Max nods into his shoulder.

“What about that is your fault?” He doesn’t remember much of their days in the group home. He wishes he did, sometimes. Wishes he could remember a time when they were all together, before they knew enough to be afraid, before they were ripped apart. 

“They took me, and, and Iz, but it shouldn’t have been me, it should have been you…”

“Why?” Michael asks. “Wasn’t I the one who needed ‘special attention’?”

“No!” Max nearly shouts, “no, it wasn’t you, it was  _ never  _ you, it was my fault, me!”

“You mean…”

_ “I _ drew on the walls,  _ I _ was screaming, it was  _ me  _ and  _ my fault _ but you took the crayon away from me and then they came, and, and, and…”

Michael falls silent for a moment as he processes what this all means. His first thought, first emotion, is anger. Max had been chosen, and he had not, and for  _ so long _ he had thought it was because he had done something wrong. But now...now Max is saying it was  _ him  _ who had done something wrong, not Michael...

“You…” Michael begins, thoughts still racing, trying to figure out what to say, trying to figure out where the blame really lies. He’s been doing his best, lately, to let go of the past, forgive what he can and move past what he cannot. He’s long since forgiven his siblings for being chosen- _ chosen, _ not  _ leaving, _ because they were  _ children  _ and had no say in the matter, couldn’t have stayed with him if they’d wanted to. And he knows they’d wanted to. So how much does this little revelation of Max’s really change anything?

He makes up his mind, finally, chooses what to say. “That’s in the past, Max, and I don’t know about you, but I’m  _ sick  _ of being stuck there.”

Max sniffs and pulls away. Michael lets him go, this time. “You mean…” he whispers, his voice painfully scratchy even with how quiet it is. 

“I mean, I’m a little pissed, yeah, but it doesn’t matter now. That’s more than twenty years ago, and it’s more on your folks than you. We were  _ seven, _ Max, it’s not like you  _ meant  _ to hurt me.”

Max shakes his head, looks at Michael disbelievingly. “I’m the reason you were abandoned, left to the system, it’s  _ my fault,” _ he insists. He’s breathing more evenly, now, and his voice is steadier and more sober, but tears still roll steadily down his face. Michael almost reaches out and wipes them away, but stops himself. Maybe Max needs to feel this. He continues the conversation instead, airing the question at the front of his mind.

“Dude, I don’t even remember any of this happening. I thought you didn’t either.”

“I don’t, but Sheriff Valenti told me. When she arrested me.”

“Then how do you know that’s even the truth?”

Max shakes his head again. “It just...feels like the truth. I can tell.”

They are both silent for a moment, until Max starts looking like he’s going to break down again, and Michael has to stop him. He doesn’t think either of them can handle any more breaking, not tonight. 

“It’s not your fault.”

That snaps Max out of it well enough. “Michael, did you even  _ listen  _ to me? Everything that’s gone wrong in your life has been my fault.”

“Hey,” Michael snaps. “You don’t get credit for all that. My life has been fucked up by a variety of sources far worse than you. And what I meant is, yeah, okay, it  _ is  _ your fault that you drew all over the walls and screamed, and you shouldn’t have done that to begin with, but that’s where the blame stops for you. You didn’t  _ make  _ your parents choose you. You didn’t  _ decide  _ to leave me behind. I know you would never have done that, if you’d had a choice, but you  _ didn’t. _ We were  _ seven, _ man.”

“But they took me, and they should have taken you.”

“Isn’t that on them, then?”

Max sighs, a deep, shuddering sigh. “I don’t know,” he admits, leaning back against Michael again. 

Michael is really scraping the bottom of the whole philosophical-discussion barrel, but he offers up what he’s got left. “I’ve been trying this new thing where I let go of the past. Forgiving who I can and...remembering it, but not letting it define me.”

“Isobel talked about that, too,” Max says. “Forgiving people. Myself.” He sounds like he doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to  _ do  _ it.

Michael takes a deep breath. “I forgive you,” he says. “For being chosen, for having a family and a home when I didn’t, for everything else that might be your fault. I forgive you.” He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed to say this, to let go of one more piece of his past. It feels nice, and he decides he’s not quite done yet. So he takes another deep breath, breaks himself open just a little more. “And I forgive myself, too, you know? All the times I thought I just wasn’t enough for any of the foster families, all the bad choices I’ve made and the people I’ve hurt. I can’t change that stuff, I can’t change how I felt or the things I did, but I can forgive myself for it and let go. And so can you.”

Max leans back again, looking slightly stunned. He smiles, finally, watery and shaky, and Michael smiles back, doesn’t even bother wiping away the tears on his own face. 

“That...was really beautiful, Michael.”

Michael shoves Max lightly. “Really, Max?  _ That’s  _ what you got out of my little speech?”

Max’s face turns serious. “No,” he says, “no, I...thank you, Michael. I don’t...I don’t think I can forgive myself, not yet. But maybe, someday, I will.”

Michael nods, deciding that that’s good enough. He stands, offers Max a hand up, steadying him when he wavers a little. “You good now?”

Max nods. “Thanks,” he says again, looking directly at Michael, the sincerity in his voice painted across his face.

“Anytime,” Michael says, and he thinks he genuinely means it. “Goodnight, Max.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!! many apologies if this is ooc or anything, tbh this was kinda me just going through some stuff and projecting onto the characters lmao sorry. pls lmk your thoughts!! i think there will be another chapter or two after this!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is my final chapter of this!!!! there's not much characterization of ann in canon so i kinda just did my own thing, hope this is alright!!!

He’s been putting off this conversation for as long as he can-sibling conversations are one thing, but approaching a parent? About something that they don’t know about? That’s an entirely different beast, and one which Max would much rather avoid. 

But he knows he can’t avoid it. He’s made it this far in his little terrible-discovery-about-the-past journey, and he doesn’t have very many more people he wants to tell. 

Today, it’s his mother. He has no idea how she will react-if she’ll be mad, upset, confused...and will those emotions be directed at herself? At him? At  _ Michael? _ There are far too many unknowns for his liking, and the only way to make them known is to bite the bullet and sit down for a conversation with one Anne Evans.

So he does. He calls his mom and asks if she’d like to go get lunch, just the two of them. As he’d expected, she’s thrilled he asked, and before he can even suggest a restaurant, she’s telling him all about this new place just outside town that one of the ladies from book club recommends, and that’s that. They’re going to lunch. 

His mother wastes no time in talking to him the second they sit down at their table-“is this about Liz?”

He shakes his head. “It’s about...me, kind of. And you. And Michael.”

“Oh?”

His palms are sweaty under the table, and he’s relieved when the waiter approaches them before he has a chance to explain what he means. The two of them order their drinks (and his mother insists on getting some kind of fancy appetizer as well), and lapse into silence. 

Despite going over this conversation a thousand times in his head, Max feels lost and unsure of how to proceed. He tries to remind himself of the things he’d talked about with his siblings-guilt, forgiveness, and moving on. But hasn’t his mother already moved on? Did she ever need to? Is he going to be opening an old wound or creating an entirely new one?  _ Maybe he shouldn’t have done this… _

“Max.”

He looks up, snapped out of his thoughts. “Sorry,” he says, with an easy smile. “What?”

“What did you want to tell me?”

Max shakes his head.  _ Can he really do this? _ He bounces his leg, looks around aimlessly. His mother, same as his siblings, deserves the truth, but what if it only hurts her? Makes everything worse?

“Max. Tell me.”

“I don’t know if I should,” he says finally. One truth, at least. 

His mother nods, like she understands. She can’t, but he appreciates it anyway. He’s saved from the conversation momentarily when the waiter returns, bearing a plate of his mother’s fancy appetizers. They order their meals, and Max is all out of options to delay their conversation. He has to say  _ something. _

He  _ wants  _ to tell her, he knows that. He’s kept enough from her. Even if this might hurt her, it’s what’s right. She deserves some bit of truth. And so he speaks.

“I wanted to talk about Michael. And me. And the past.”

His mother nods again, waits for him to go on. She’s picked up on the seriousness in his voice, setting down her drink and looking at him, half encouraging, half reassuring, across the table.

“I don’t remember the day you adopted me and Isobel. None of us do. All we knew of that day was what you told us. But there’s more to it than that.” He stops for a second, gathers his thoughts again, continues.

“Sheriff Valenti told me...she was at the group home the day you and Dad came. Before you got there. She was watching us. And…” He stops again, takes a deep breath, tangles his hands together atop the table. “And she says that it wasn’t Michael who was screaming and drawing that symbol on the walls. It was me.”

Something crosses his mother’s face, but it’s gone before he can figure out what it is. She reaches out and lightly grabs his arm, but doesn’t say anything. He’s glad for that. He’s not sure he could handle any interruptions to his story at the moment-he just has to keep going.

“It was me, and before you came in, Michael took the crayon from me and then it happened like you said, you and Dad came in and saw Michael with the crayon and me and Iz curled up together crying, and you took us, but you should have taken Michael. It’s…” he wants to say  _ my fault, _ wants to say it more than anything, but somewhere in the back of his mind the voices of his siblings pipe up, talking about forgiveness and things you can’t control. “It’s twenty years too late to do anything about it, but I thought you should know. There was nothing wrong with Michael.  _ I _ was the problem.”

His mother lets go of his arm, sighs, blinks a few times, like she’s trying to get everything in order in her mind. “Okay,” she says finally. “Okay. Max. Your father and I came to the group home that day looking for a child. We left with two. And we were young and inexperienced and we weren’t sure if we could  _ handle  _ two children, but as soon as we saw you and your sister, all huddled together in the corner, scared and crying, we knew we had to take both of you. Maybe we should have taken the other boy-Michael-maybe we should have taken him, too. Lord knows I’ve thought about it, wondered what would have happened if we’d taken all three of you, but we didn’t. We couldn’t. We thought we wouldn’t have been enough for him, he was unruly, he-”

“He  _ wasn’t,” _ Max interrupts, hiding his shaking hands under the table. “He wasn’t. It was me. Michael got left behind because of me.”

“Michael got left behind because of  _ us,” _ his mother corrects, reaching a hand across the table to cup his face. “Because your father and I were too worried about him-whether or not we had any reason to be,” she interrupts herself, before Max can. “That was wrong of us,” she continues, sniffing slightly. “I’ve thought about that a lot, recently. We were young, and nervous, and we used  _ one thing _ about that boy to justify our leaving him. I thought we were doing the right thing, at the time. I believe now that it wasn’t the right thing at all.”

“Mom-”

She shakes her head. “Let me finish, Max,” she says, smiling sadly. “We can’t change the past. All we can do is live in the present. You can’t get hung up on twenty-year-old regrets. And neither can I. All that does is hold us back. At some point, you just have to step back and say, ‘I messed up, and I regret it.’ You have to relinquish your guilt and leave it in the past. Your father and I messed up twenty years ago,  _ regardless  _ of whether or not what you told me today is true. I’ve done my best to come to terms with that. You need to, too.”

She swipes a tear he hadn’t realized he’d shed from under his eye and gives him another, less sad, smile. 

“I don’t know if I can,” he confesses. “I feel like I’ll always be guilty of something.”

“It’s a process,” she tells him gently. “It takes time, and patience, and conversations like this one. You’ll get there.”

He thinks on this a moment. “I want to get there,” he says at last, and it feels like a weight has been lifted off of his chest, one he hadn’t even known was there.

His mother pats his cheek, steals a bite of his untouched food. “You will,” she says simply, like it’s a truth that can’t be argued against. “I know you will.”

Max nods. He’s not sure he believes it-but he’s not sure he  _ doesn’t  _ believe it, either. 

“We should have dinner,” his mother comments, as their meals arrive. “You, me, Isobel, Michael, all of us. We could talk. Start a new chapter.”

Max almost says no, thinking of  _ Michael  _ and  _ Isobel  _ and  _ dinner  _ and his  _ mother  _ at the same time, but he stops himself. Maybe this is exactly what they need-something to symbolize this new beginning, this family that he and his siblings have been doing their best to create. 

“That sounds nice,” he says. 

“Doesn’t it?” His mother smiles, and he smiles back. “Now, speaking of food, you’d better eat your lunch before it gets cold.”

The rest of their meal is spent discussing this upcoming dinner, and what his mother should make for it, and how casual of a gathering it will be, and what sorts of things Michael likes, and a plethora of other things that are so  _ normal  _ Max almost forgets how scared he’d been to have this whole conversation. 

They leave the restaurant eventually, his mother chattering about the latest book club gossip as they make their way to their cars. As he waves goodbye, Max realizes that he feels genuinely  _ good, _ for the first time in a while. 

Maybe, he finds himself thinking, forgiveness, in all its forms, doesn’t have to be so painful. Maybe guilt is worth letting go of. 

Maybe  _ his  _ guilt is worth letting go of. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so so much for reading this fic!!! (i'm sorry the ending is so bad i can't write endings for shit lol). i know it's not very long or very good but this is the longest complete work i've ever done and i'm really happy about that! please let me know your thoughts!

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading!! please please please let me know what you think and if you think is worth continuing!


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